


Ye Olde Adventure Shoppe

by December



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-10-11 13:37:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17448002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/December/pseuds/December
Summary: Order yer custom-made Middle-earth adventure here. Taking reader requests.Ts & Cs apply. Possible side-effects include: extreme smut (with added angst, or fluff, choose your poison), general silliness, canon blasphemy, much eye-rolling.First story now in!





	1. Chapter 1

_Skip to next chapter to read the first request-based fic._

About requests.

Be gentle, kind reader, this is my first time.

I want to write you a sweet little tale upon your very own request, with you as the reader-character. The results will be posted here as a collection of shorts.

Want to try?

Drop a request in the comments.

Check out my other work to see if you like my style and want me to make one for you. 

But if you're under 18, you shall not pass (sorry, I could't resist). Come back when you're 18, because this place will get very dirty, very quickly.

 **What to include in your request:**  
\- Quick summary of your dream (fantasy porn) scenario and your role in it. Stories will be 1,000-5,000 words, so keep it fairly simple  
\- Pairings you want, including between other characters. E.g. Reader/Aragorn + Aragorn/Boromir  
\- Reader character origin. Canon character, original Middle-earth native, or someone from our time falling in  
\- About reader character if not part of canon. I'll only make them as good as the info I'm given. Tell me gender, age-bracket, personality, any relevant skills and quirks. 

Notes:  
\- LOTR only, no cross-overs with other fandoms, zombies, vampires, XXI century Middle-earth, etc.  
\- I'll try to keep characters as true to character as I can, so if you want a clumsy Aragorn who can't hold a sword, that might not happen  
\- No pedophilia, but I'm sure you wouldn't ask for that anyway

 **Example request 1.**  
_Imagine, on the eve of Boromir's departure on a secret mission to a faraway land of the Elves, you decide you've got nothing to lose and should finally tell him how you feel. You're a proper lady in Denethor's court and have had your heart set on Boromir for as long as you can remember. But he is too occupied with the matters of war and never took notice. Or maybe you were too serious and reserved to show it clearly enough. No matter, you now find yourself about to knock on the door of his private rooms as night descends upon Minas Tirith. Little do you know he's already saying a passionate goodbye to someone, specifically his hot younger brother - and they are both going to show you their mastery is not limited to just swords and spears._  


**Example request 2.**  
_Imagine, everyone thought you dead, and by the time you lick your wounds and make it home, the War is already over. Not just that, your younger brother has been made Steward to the new King, and on top of it got himself the most beautiful maiden in all of Middle-earth. You really shouldn't, but you can't help but fall for her. Trying to do the decent thing, you do your best to stay away, and become a reserved and unhappy man. Until one day you accidentally walk on her bathing alone in the river - but she is not at all upset to see you._  
  


All right fandomers, show me what you've got. Let's make this wild.


	2. To Break a Wolf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **REQUEST SUMMARY**  
>  By Cirilla9  
>  _My biggest Middle-earth dream is to be Sauron's kennelmaster._  
>  _He'd be training these fluffy monsters himself but someone needs to feed them human or elf flesh when he's occupied, right? Set when he's still pretty 😋 I wanna be an Easterling woman ❤️ Tanned skin, eyes rimmed with kohl._  
>  _I'm aware he's very much out of my reach, I'm all right with loving him from a distance as his loyal servant, watching his interactions with the animals in admiration._  
>  **STORY WARNINGS**  
>  Extreme violence, general gruesomeness, macabre humour, language.

* * *

  


Imagine you had almost stopped believing in the old legends - until He came.

The tales passed around the campfires spoke of the mythical God-Khan the Hunter of the elder days. He would charge through the Great Steppes on a fierce steed, covered in a skin of polished metal, and gold was in his hair and fire in his eyes. Great knowledge and terrible power he wielded, and showed the people the road to glorious prosperity. All who beheld him would fall to their knees in awe and love.

Of the boys you had grown up among, none would ever hold a lit splinter even to his mere shadow, for all their talk of becoming fearsome warlords one day. The clever ones were weak, and the strong ones dumb and uncouth. They sat in the grass where the horses shat, and ate meat with their hands out of the same cauldron as everyone else, and wiped their mouths on their greasy sleeves, and slept in their yurts fully clothed, scratching at their fleas in their sleep.

The Chief's sons were no better, if only even bigger, louder and dirtier. 

Your contempt was repaid two-fold with distrust. This is where you had learnt the importance of power.

Had they not feared you, you might not have lived long enough to see happier days. 

As it were, you had your sweet darlings, and everyone with any sense knew to give you a wide berth. The one idiot who had thought he could take you for a roll in the dust when you refused his clumsy advances, got his face mauled so profusely he was left unable to eat. Whether he died of starvation or his wounds festering, was anyone’s guess, and none were keen to try it to find out. 

Only the hunters were permitted to keep hounds, and these were jealously guarded, to keep them pure. Another ignorant stupidity. Your mother, may her wise spirit rest in honour, would untie your father's bitches overnight and let them run out into the hills, where the wolves and the other things roamed. She had taken a few good beatings for this, but her blood had paid for a mighty gift. 

The cubs were hard to bear and harder yet to deliver, tearing up many a whimpering bitch with their bulk, but what cubs they were! Born with a full set of dagger-teeth, they took no milk and went straight for meat. If the litter had regular pups in it too, these would be the first dinner. 

Many shook their heads and called your mother a dim-witted woman and even a witch, but none dared touch the cubs. Some said, when the God-Khan had passed through these lands, he had with him a God-Hound gifted with speech. Perhaps it were its descendants that prowled the hills in the dark, and to harm anything that came of them would invite a curse. 

Your mother would chuckle. "These came from no god," she would say, watching the cubs bite right through a mutton bone.

But one thing they had in them that came from hounds, and that was blind loyalty. To your mother, and now to you. 

All rules were forgotten, and no one once mentioned that you had no right to keep them. And that was the power of fear and strength.

And then He came.

Not alone, He had warriors with Him, both afoot and on horseback. Some from the neighbouring clans, others from far away, with strange faces, with pale round-shaped eyes that were unrimmed with kohl. So many you would later learn it was called a host.

Yet He looked for still more. 

And He rode through the lands of men and wild things, and added to His ranks those He deemed worthy, and gave the mercy of death to those who were not. 

On that day, you knew none of this. Only that legend had walked out of song and straight onto the plains where your clan broke camp year upon year to graze the sheep.

His steed trod unafraid surrounded by a pack of great Wolves with long snouts and eyes of death, and the steed's mane and its tail and all of it were black as the heart of night. 

As was the polished armour that coated Him from the pointed toe of His boot to His very neck, and golden veins ran through the dark metal. 

You were unashamed to stare with your mouth slack, for you never had believed so much power and proud beauty could coalesce within one being. As though He had eaten ten thousand men, and all that was right and admirable about them He had absorbed and collected in Himself. 

Yet no man was He, and whatever had made His shape had much more cunning and flare than what came up with the paltry bodies of your kind. 

Like yours, His hair was sleek, heavy and straight. But where you had coal, His was like unto pure gold. Forget about the gold in the hair of the God-Khan - His was gold itself.

His skin was the cleanest, most flawless thing you ever did see. As though it were not skin at all, but the finest fabric crafted by the most skillful hand, and He clothed himself in it like a glove. But you could tell it was stronger than any leather armour of your kinsmen, and no ordinary blade could mar it. 

And it was so pale, it seemed to you that it shone. Later you would hear, and this could well be true, that He came in the years before they made the sun, and hence His skin did not know to turn bronze in its rays like yours.

But best of all were His eyes. Like fire they blazed, and yet were cold as stone. And not a man's eyes they were, but like those of a deadly field-serpent.

The Chief of your tribe, whom most had counted fearless and a fierce warrior, trembled as he knelt before Him in the dust.

All the men and the women that had gathered, young and old, all fell to the ground and hid their eyes. 

But not you, for you forgot to be afraid in the halo of His majesty that eclipsed the sun in the sky. Your hound-wolves huddled to your legs, wary of all this, but you saw and knew nothing other than Him. 

Then He saw you standing there, and He laughed.

"Are you a thrall," He said to the Chief, "and this wench your queen, that she stands when you cower in the dirt?"

He laughed again, and His men laughed, and His Wolves laughed too. To the biggest one with the cleverest eyes He gave a nod, and fierce as lightning the wolf came leaping at you.

This was the one thing that day that was nothing new for you.

Without thinking, you stood tall and threw your arms wide and yelled at the charging canine with all the might of your lungs.

Taken aback, he missed a step, and that was when your hound-wolves came bounding forth, two from the left and two more from the right. They may not have been as large or as strong, but the Wolf was alone and only amusing himself whereas they were many and willing to die for you. He came to a hasty halt, uncertain how to proceed, growling and bending his legs, scanning them with calculating eyes. 

That was when you caught His eyes on you, and you saw a glint of interest awaken in them.

"No need!" He called to the Wolf, waiving him down. To the others, He said, "Break camp, this hole may be worthwhile after all."

He threw the reins to a servant, dismounted, and strode to you. The hound-wolves did not stand in His way, and you did not think the less of them for it.

He grasped you by the chin.

His touch was hard and hot.

He turned your face one way, then the other, inspecting it dispassionately. He twisted your neck too far and it hurt, but somehow you did not hold it against Him. Could someone so sublime really be expected to understand - or care - how mortal bodies worked?

"You are symmetrically made, how unusual," He concluded. You did not know what the long word meant, but it seemed He was pleased by it, or at least not displeased. "Now show your teeth," He said. "I cannot stand uneven teeth."

Had He told you to rip your heart out of your rib cage and present to Him, you would have gladly. As He stood above you, you smelled on Him power, and blood, and iron, and wonders untold.

He hooked His thumb over your lower lip, pulling it down, peered critically at your mouth, then raised His brows in apparent satisfaction. 

"Very well then. So, what are you supposed to be?"

You told Him your name, but He only smirked. "I am not going to bother remembering that. I shall call you by the title if you live to earn one. How did you come by these beasts?"

"They are hound-wolves, my... khan."

"Master," He corrected you, but you could see that He had liked your choice of word.

As you told Him the story of how for generations you had bred them with the unseen creatures of the shadows, you tried at first to be restrained and dignified, but it quickly became apparent that He did not altogether mind a bit of fawning, if done tastefully. So it could be forgiven if you were perhaps just a little breathless when you finished your account with a plea to take you into service.

A miraculous thing happened then, He smiled upon you.

Of course, it was a blood-chilling thing also. For one, His eyes did not join. Which was bizarrely over-compensated by the amount of teeth He managed to flash, as though He Himself were about to turn into a wolf, throw His mouth wide open, and swallow you whole. 

"I may have just the job for you," He said.

* * *

There are many rules. 

First of all, you are your job. Only because He has found a use for you, are you permitted to exist. This is not to be forgotten.

They call you the Kennelmaster.

Which is a position with concerning rates of turnover. Your charges have been bred into near-intelligence, and many carry venom in their fangs, and of those many like to bite for laughs.

The first time fangs sank through your skin, He swore at you and struck you to the ground, and had you dragged out and dumped in the corridor, where you were expected to die in boiling agony before six hours had passed. None of the Orcs dared touch you for your meat was deemed poisoned.

For lack of anything to do you had eventually fallen asleep, and were roused when He gave your body a kick as He yelled at a pair of quivering Orc-servants for leaving corpses lying all over the place again.

When you yelped and sat up, the servants screeched and dashed two different directions down the passage, taking you for a reanimated undead.

He, on the other hand, crouched beside you and studied you intently. Once again you saw the interest glint in His eyes.

It is fortunate the hound-wolves of your childhood must have a similar strain so that their playful gnawing had inured you.

You were allowed to return to the kennels, and were no longer struck when you got bit.

If you had not loved Him already, the way He is with the wolves would have taken care of that. He could be cruel, easily, but never is, not with the wolves. Firm, discerning, demanding - but never cruel. He never hurts to hurt, only to teach.

He is the first to welcome them into this world, so they remember whom they owe their life. Right on the straw-covered floor of the pen, He would sit cross-legged, and cradle the warm, damp litter in the fold of His tunic. If any are malformed, He snuffs out their flame quickly, so they can return into the nothingness. 

He sits upright, but closes His eyes and as though falls asleep. And then, over the pile of newly made cubs in His lap, He sings.

His hands with their long nimble fingers move over the little bodies in strange, elegant patterns, as though He is spinning and weaving His music into a mighty web. The clarity and command of His strong voice are ancient and eerie, and there are no words you understand, but there is no need, because this is not a chant of speech, but of the very being. You think that if He sung it backwards, He would unravel you thread by thread till your very spirit came undone.

To keep selection uncontaminated, all must be handled the same. In Master's case, the same means - exactly - the same. If you feed one some Elf brains - which you should as often as possible, as it makes them smarter - then each should receive an equal share of that specific brain. Because one Elf might not be as clever as the next, you just never know.

The preparation of the brain needs to begin while it is still conscious. He had run tests, and the more fear and pain is deposited into meat prior to slaughter, the better the nutritional quality. Though not despair, that sours the taste, so while He wants the Elf suffering, it also has to maintain hope to the very end that it can escape. Which can be tricky to coordinate, so sometimes you are enlisted to act as its disguised ally who has supposedly arrived to rescue it. You have to come up with plausible explanations why it must keep on waiting, and waiting, while it bleats on about how horrible He is, and how its people are oppressed. So tempting to kick it in the guts for its whingeing, but that would really blow your decoy. 

When at last the beauties are grown, come the nights of the hunt.

Not something you can join with your two legs, so you clean the pens waiting to see which of your babies shall return victorious.

A few came back from their virgin foray with bits of flesh and cloth between their teeth – led by a strange great Wolf, robed in a pelt of darkened sunlight. 

You confronted the newcomer with crossed arms.

"You are not of my kennel."

In a split, spliced moment, Master stood where the Wolf was before. He looked at you with derisive amusement and, almost, with fondness.

"Are you so sure of that, kennelmaster?" He asked, leaning in so close you had to step back.

The males and bitches best at the chase are then bred. This is a step He watches keenly and with extensive commentary, while you never quite know what to do with yourself.

Once, a particularly promising young male could not get into it, looking around and laying back his ears. The bitch, sensing his hesitation, grew scornful and started snarling and snapping at him. The others found this highly entertaining and made a game of pretending to sneak up and nip him on the behind, which did not aid his concentration. 

Master paced the room in exasperation. 

"This makes no sense," He said. "It is ready, and it has such clean blood. Why!"

"Master, if I may... Perhaps he does not like the attention. He is quite young after all..."

He looked at you as if you had proposed to hand out ruffled underwear to the Orcs. 

"Kennelmaster, if it can't fuck a bitch for all to see, it has no business being a wolf. Give it another night and slit its throat if it hasn't sorted itself out."

The cycle is repeated, and occasionally He plucks out the exceptional ones.

You are not quite certain what exactly happens to them. Not everything that goes on around here is mentioned to you, and even if you chanced to walk across it, who is to say that your primitive mortal eyes would see.

All you know is that He takes the best ones someplace - to the Great Master, you have heard. And the Great Master is the smith of life, for he can seize the life of a thinking thing, like an Orc, or even a pure life that has only a mind but no set shape, and weld it into the bodies of His children, when they are ready, and make them into Wolves.

After that, the successful grafts are said to be taken to a tower down the river from here, to guard against incoming enemy. Presumably that is where He spends such long stretches of time, away from your wolves, away from you.

But it is still worth it. Not a moment of regret have you known since He brought you here in His service. The bleak outside may be breathtakingly cold even in summer, and disorientingly dark throughout winter. There may be no high grasses and endless open plains of the steppes, no hidden creeks running underfoot or hunting birds circling overhead. But it matters not, it is laughable to even consider these feral joys of uncivilised nomadic tribes as an equal exchange for the great promise He carries in His hand. To be given any place at all in the building of this glorious future is a privilege beyond reckoning. 

* * *

A rough time is being had by all.

The Great Master got so angry, the entire roof of the mountains caught on fire and exploded. The whole place shook for a week, and everyone ran every which way.

The wolves did not care for all this, and stood on guard at all times with their tails between their legs, complaining in low growls. They wanted Him to come and reassure them, but He has still not come.

You try to find out what you can, and luckily your counterpart in the dragon-pits is talkative. The latest consensus is that, believe it not, some hapless fucker showed up with an Elvish slut, and somehow they got right to the Great Master, and rolled him out of his iron throne, and stole something off him. They also made the Great Wolf, whom the Great Master had fed from his own hand, go utterly mad, and he went missing after that. Understandably, this was all very upsetting to the Great Master, especially the falling to the floor part.

The pits-keeper, out of occupational solidarity, emphatically advises you to watch your tongue. If you know what's good for you, make no mention, let alone jokes, about falling, stealing, thrones, Elves, hapless fuckers, or generally anything at all. A few people have already gone missing after talking insolently, and he was fairly certain he had noticed some of their bits in the dragon-meal. 

The Great Master's troubles concern you solely inasmuch as their implications for Him. 

You have seen the Great Master only in passing, and while of course he is formidable and all-powerful, and greater in size even than Him, for you his appeal is a little too flat. The Great Master's power is all chaos and hate, and all his creations seem tortured and crippled. Unlike Him, he cares not for reaching new heights that rise above the limited minds of men.

Then again, who are you to know anything. For one thing, the way He looks at the Great Master is a whole other story. 

The way He looks at the Great Master makes your stomach tie itself into a dark knot.

But you have your own worries. Starved of His attention, your charges are getting out of hand. It is only a matter of time before one breaks free.

Not yet fully grown, the bitch-cub has the speed and enthusiasm of a youngling, but already brawn to be reckoned with. To her credit, she could have mowed you down, but instead chooses to leap over your head. She sprints down the row of kennels and skids as she turns mid-leap to shoot out the door into the main corridor.

Swearing through your teeth, you give chase. Down dark, winding passages, down, down spiraling staircases, into the belly of the earth under the mountains, where it is hot.

You catch up on her as she stands on her hind legs, clawing her way into His workshop, and you just see the door give way. You tackle the cub with the full weight of your body, but she manages to wriggle half-free and push her way into the forge, dragging you along. 

As she gets a fresh dose of His scent, she slips out of your arms like a river-eel and jumps forth with an excited yap. You lunge after her, only to all but crash into the fuming Master who appears in your way as though by magic, radiating a halo of raw heat. 

"What is wrong with you! Have I not said I am not to be disturbed in the smithy!"

As He has no need of protective gear and likes the swelter of the forge, He only wears a pair of leather breeches. They are made from the pelt of some Elf or another, for the tissue of immortals is notably resistant to tears and burns. They fit him like a second skin.

You try not to glance at the utter perfection of His muscular arms with their dusting of golden hairs, nor the taut lines of His sculpted chest and abdomen. This leaves you with the choice to either look up into His impossible eyes, whereby you are certain He will immediately see your thoughts, or to stare down at the unapologetic bulge of His crotch.

Studying your own feet, if not the best look, seems the only viable route.

"Master, please, she only wishes to be with you, she adores you and knows no better."

He slaps you half-heartedly.

"Take it and go."

You both look down at the cub, who has curled up next to the work-bench and is deeply and blissfully asleep.

He brings His hand to His face, and you see suddenly how tired and sick of everything He is.

"Fine," He says, "fine, I don't have time to deal with this now. You stay and watch over it. If it wakes and breaks anything..."

With a hasty bow, you kneel on the floor beside the cub, and heave a silent sigh of relief when He settles back into work.

While your heart is firmly with the wolves, this place is something else. His workshop is pristine and meticulously organised, with neat shelves full of polished tools, laid out in immaculate order. The larger of His inventions line the walls, and their spiked and jagged details give you delightful shivers. There are also many small drawers and boxes, no doubt full of wondrous masterpieces.

It is an impossible honour to be permitted here, even if earned entirely through the accident of your own incompetence.

You steal another surreptitious glance up.

The opulence of His long hair is held out of the way, tied up with a leather cord in the back, and you are afraid to think how devastatingly it suits Him. Then you note an odd expression on His regal face. It is... you do not actually know what it is. Something about it gives you a sense of unease, a pinching sensation in your chest, but you hide your eyes lest you distract Him.

He swears under His breath as He works. Something is not right.

He bends lower over the bench, growling and muttering to Himself. Perhaps He pushes too hard in His frustration, for whatever He is labouring over bounces out of His hold and flies across the desk. It falls to the floor and rolls to a stop beside you.

You feel your eyes go round with awe. A many-faceted diamond about the size of an egg, it imprisons the fire-light and cleaves it into a myriad fractured rainbows in its bottomless depths. 

It ends up in your hand before you know you had picked it up, and feels more real than reality, so complete and precise.

He seems disappointed as you rush to hand it back.

"Tell me," He says, eyeing you keenly, "how much did it hurt to give it to me?"

You do not understand, and only shake your head mutely, like the dirty savage from the plains that you are, unable to grasp something that should be so obvious.

To contribute at least something of substance, you ask, "Is it enchanted, master?"

"Don't be daft, why would I waste breath enchanting something imperfect."

He squeezes it in His fist. The tendons in His knuckles go taut, you hear a dry, hollow crunch, and a trickle of glitter runs down from His clenched hand.

"A true one wouldn't break," He tells you.

He regards the remaining ones darkly, gathers them up and starts throwing them one by one back into the fire from which He wrought them.

"I like what you make, master," you offer quietly.

"I like what you make, master," He repeats, mocking. "Who are you to like what I make? What do you know of gems and metals and smith-craft and beautiful things? If you saw a thing so supreme and powerful that half the Middle-earth would go to war over it - would you even know it? You only make things that devour and destroy."

"Forgive me, master."

He turns away. 

"Leave me before I kill you. I can't be bothered looking for a new kennelmaster now."

* * *

Not again. 

You make a note to yourself to have the locksmith flayed. How do they keep escaping? Master would be very unhappy now.

At least, this wolf is not trying to lose you. In fact, you soon suspect he is leading you, waiting to run off only once you almost reach him. 

"We shouldn't go here," you say eventually, putting your fists on your hips. "I'll have your arse whipped, oh I will. What do you think you're up to? Enough, come, let's go home." 

But he has four paws, and you only two feet, and you will get to him only when he decides so. Which is not until you arrive at the side passageways leading into the great throne room.

This part of the stronghold is all but deserted these days, for most would not risk to be in the vicinity of the Great Master when his temper is so particularly short. Most, but not Him.

As the wolf nudges you insistently and you dare peer out from behind the monolith pillar, there He is, standing in the vast emptiness of the monstrously cavernous hall. 

The Great Master sits on his throne, shrouded in a cloud of darkness, wispy and ever-moving. Upon his head a mighty crown, set for three blinding gems. The one on the left is missing, like a gouged eye-socket. It makes the entire piece look lopsided, grotesque. Like an old hog trying to dress up as a faerie princeling.

Inside your chest, your heart is trying to kill you before you are spotted and put to death in a much more unpleasant manner. You draw back into cover and bite down on your lip.

"What is this, a joke?" the Great Master is saying, and as always his rasping voice sounds like it is coming from some deep hole in the ground. "Are you trying to look stupid or are you trying to make your lord look stupid, which is it?"

"Master, I only wanted..." as ever, He speaks with poise, but it pangs your heart to hear a catch in His voice. 

"Master, I only wanted," the Great Master repeats, mocking. "To cover your arse, is what you wanted. This is nothing like it, nothing! You came to taunt me, didn't you? What did you even make them out of, glass?"

You hear a scattering noise, like pebbles hurled hard onto a stone floor.

One bounces and rolls far enough to fall into your field of vision, and you see it to be like one of those gems He had been toiling over before - like one of those gems in the iron crown.

"That's all you're good for, tinkering with your trinkets in your little toy-shop! You should've guarded what was put in your care when you had the chance. To lose an entire island to - one - Elf-bitch. And now this!"

The wolf eyes you reproachfully, clearly expecting you to step in and do something heroic, and you gather the nerve to peek out again. You see His hands curl as though He wants to clench them, and He stands taller. "We did what we could, Master," He says with uncharacteristic patience, "but her power was the greater, she slayed all my Wolves, and she would have taken my very own body off me if -"

"Save your excuses, I am not one of your witless serfs that you can charm with your sweet tongue."

With effort, the Great Master pulls himself up, staggers down the stone steps, hovers over Him. He reaches around His head, gathers His hair in his fist, and lifts Him off the floor like a dog by the scruff.

"You seem to have gotten it into your pretty little head, Mairon, that you are the master of your own body. Looks like you are due a reminder that everything belongs to me."

He turns Him around in the air, away from himself, and with one downward swipe of his black hand down His back, rips His garments down.

Where before in His beautiful face was only humiliation, you see the horror of comprehension dawn on Him like the herald of a black sunrise.

"Master..." He whispers.

The Great Master is very calm, like a breeding bull going about his mounting, as he brings Him face-down on the floor and pushes Him flat.

"Master, please!"

A terrible pain engulfs you as you watch Him thrash vainly under the iron bulk. You know He is not genuinely struggling, for of course He would know there is no point. But in His confused panic He cannot control the impulses of His material body.

The Great Master wraps one hand around His throat, to keep His naked body in place, with the other grasping the pale flesh of His lean thigh.

"I am so sorry, Master, please! You're all that I have, I exist to serve you!"

The Great Master pauses to smirk. "Yes, you do. And you have failed me."

It is really hard to tell through the simmering darkness, but His skin is so fair that you can just make out His other leg kicking out on the other side of His master's massive frame, desperate to find its way to its counterpart as His master wrenches them even further apart.

He claws at the smooth floor. 

"Please, Master! I love you!"

"Then next time you shall remember where your priorities lie. Now look what you've done."

He first cries out when the Great Master's hand plunges deep between His spread buttocks.

"Please, Master, please stop! Take it out, I can't!"

For some time, the hand taunts Him with a crude, repetitive gesture. As it is finally withdrawn He shudders and goes limp. His body begins to tremble convulsively in the aftermath of the violation, and it seems to you He is doing what He can to choke down the involuntary noises in His throat, as the Great Master looks down upon Him completely without emotion.

"Oh, I am sorry," he says then. "I thought you were going to like that. It's a shame we lost Carcharoth, if he comes back perhaps we should let him ride you with his hairy prick. But let's see if I've got anything for you in the meanwhile." 

You do not stay to watch the Great Master lean on Him and force his way in, but from the ungodly shriek that rents the air you know it is done.

His screams should have struck you dead on the spot, what a mercy that would have been.

You run, and you run, and you run, and still you can hear. If only He were crying for His splitting body.

Blindly you find your way back to the half-empty kennels, the only home you know, crawl into one of the cages, huddle in the corner, and weep with the rage of all the wolves in the world. 

You had picked one with cubs in it, and they take the opportunity to nibble on your fingers. You do not care enough to push them away, but as they lick up the oozing blood and gnaw on your knuckles, suddenly it hits you.

That look He had on His face, as He worked so lovingly over those accursed diamonds.

It was hope.

You bawl, and you rock hysterically, and you wish they would chew your hands off.

The longest time passes, and your tears have run out of power, quieting down to worn out, nauseous weeping, when the door flings open so hard it smashes the wall, and He storms in.

Dragging the escaped wolf by the scruff of his neck, He walks fast and determined, having clearly resolved to not stagger or limp, but nevertheless His gait is awkward as His wounds force Him to keep His legs apart as He walks.

You hurry to stand up, wipe your face on your sticky chewed-up sleeve.

"What in the hell! I found this one wandering about -" He pauses as He takes in the look of you. "Why are you crying?" He demands threateningly.

You shake your head and show him your bloodied hand.

"They bit me," you manage to say.

With cold fury, He throws the wolf into the nearest cage, and the door shuts and locks itself at the click of His fingers.

His eyes locked on you, as though you are prey on the loose, He walks into your cage and slaps you across the face.

"Don't you lie to me, bitch. You've been bitten worse than this, you've never cried."

"I am sorry, master," you whisper as the cubs whimper and scamper out, and all the others begin to howl.

You want to tell Him how wonderful He is, how perfect, how so much better than anyone - than anything - could ever be. That everything He makes is perfect. How you would kill for Him. A thousand men. Entire kingdoms you would lay waste at His feet. Not just men, anyone. Every hound-wolf you ever bred, you would slaughter for Him. With your bare hands, you would rip them apart.

But it is not your place to insult Him with insinuations of comfort, a servant who cannot even tell a flawless gem apart from a boulder.

So you only stand dumb with your wet face lowered, fighting to quieten the hiccuping noises in your chest that you know would succeed only in aggravating Him.

Nothing is happening for so long, Him just looming over you, smelling now more than ever of iron and blood, and horrors untold, that you cannot help but glance up.

His face is terrible, and your breath catches. You see then, caught in the matted gold of His hair, strings of grey, viscous slime.

Whether the Great Master had at the last moment pulled out and finished in His face, or whether defiling His mouth was a whole second round, there is no way to tell. Or perhaps he had used the miracle of this aureate silk to wipe off his sated, softening cock.

Before you know, He whips you about and you are smashed flat into the wall, and you only just avoid mushing your entire face bloody by turning it to the side.

Strangely, you are not afraid.

If anything, it is a relief, now you have a legitimate excuse to cry openly.

"You think I don't see you looking at me, you brainless whore?" He growls against the back of your head. "That I don't know how you sigh under your blankets when you shove your fingers up your filthy cunt, thinking of me? How do I even let you touch my wolves afterwards."

You cannot help but jolt when He flips up your leather skirt and rips aside your under-things.

He grabs you by the throat, and the touch of His hand is hard and hot.

The next thing you know is He enters you, not as a woman but as He Himself had been entered.

He is endowed generously even for His great height. It hurts so much you cannot even cry out, so you only choke.

The depth of the pain rams all the way to the centre of your thoughts, and you go incoherent and half-conscious. A pounding cacophony of deranged barking and yowling rises all around and cracks your skull apart. But you feel no particular need for any of it to stop. Somehow it seems fair that you should hurt as much as He did, as much as He still does. As much as He probably always will.

He fucks you hard and fast, with the sole purpose of pouring His incontainable rage into something. Halfway through, however, your blood and tears begin to have a soothing effect on Him, and He slows down as the exhaustion of His ordeal begins to take its toll.

His last thrust is almost, almost - almost gentle.

He stands leaning His face against the wall above your head, as you sob silently beneath Him. Strands of His tangled hair hang down into your face.

Detachedly you wonder how much internal damage your body has taken, if it will be able to walk or even last through the night.

As though to finish acting out a script, He turns you back around towards Himself, and hits you several times in the face. But you know He does not really mean it, because if He did, you would be dead with the first blow.

Your lips are swollen and you do not quite remember how to use them, but you manage to utter, "Thank you, my Lord. It is a great honour." And you mean every word.

He seems calmer now, just that little bit closer to the Master you had first looked upon in the steppes. It is as though your undoing goes towards mending some of His.

A glint of interest reflects in His cold eyes.

"You could be useful, if only your forms were not so fragile and quick to expire. I shall have a think if they could be made to last longer." 

"Thank you, master," you say, and who cares that you know not a word of what He speaks. 

He grasps you by the chin, turns your face one way, then the other. 

"I might just as well start with you," He concludes. 

* * *

_Leave me some love if you liked how this prompt came out. You can also leave your own request in the comments._


End file.
